


Naked truth

by Petra



Category: due South
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-10
Updated: 2008-08-10
Packaged: 2019-09-20 09:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17020326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: True love means giving someone everything he needs the most.





	Naked truth

**Author's Note:**

> Te talked me into this. Sage read it over and made astute suggestions.

"If you can't be honest with me, you might as well go get your fuckin' falsies on." Ray pushed Fraser away, glaring. "They made as much sense as this bullshit."

"But it's my name." Fraser stood there in Ray's kitchen with the same loose-limbed stance he'd used when Ray talked him into going dancing that one embarrassing-as-fuck time.

The eyeliner he might as well have been wearing to go with his big, stupid blinking eyes had been a different thing. And it was just as much bullshit as this 'Ben' crap. No way was Ray going to start yelling, "Honey, where's the dishtowel?" even in his own apartment, but "Fraser, where'd you put the lube?" had done them just fine for a while now.

Just because some tiddlywink bowling alley somewhere went belly-up and the proprietors moved back into town was no reason for Fraser to decide they needed some special partner code thing. They were partners enough for anybody, no dumb names necessary.

"You don't fucking call yourself that, I don't believe it, no." Ray threw up his hands. "Not even Vecchio calls you that."

Which Fraser'd told him, with a little smile, when he'd brought up the idea in the first place. And Ray'd never expected to date his partner, or fuck his partner, or anything his partner long enough to get down to that conversation about maybe trying something kinky in bed, but Fraser was like an avalanche in the wonderful world of Ray's expectations, always had been.

He could've brought this shit up then if he was going to. If he really meant it. It had to be easier to say, "Call me Ben" than "Put on some Armani and call me Benny" if what you really wanted was to be called Ben, right?

Gotta be easier if it was for real than getting Ray to really get into character, throw himself into that snazzy Italian thing like everybody'd told him he didn't have to bother to do.

Except Fraser wanted it, and for Fraser, he could do just about anything except make his nose grow.

Ray had the suit from that adventure pressed and fresh from the dry-cleaners -- who had given him one hell of a dirty look, but also one nice tailored suit with no stains. You win some, you lose some. If Fraser'd been saying, "Call me Benny," now, at least Ray'd know where it came from and what to do about it. And if Fraser wanted it again -- any time, but this -- "Who's the last person who called you 'Ben'?"

"Buck Frobisher," Fraser said, and his posture got better at that. Like he couldn't so much as mention a Mountie without saluting and going all tin-soldier. Freak.

"Right." Ray scrubbed his hand through his hair, cracking the gel and scowling at Fraser. "Your dad's partner? Who you saw, what, as much as you saw your dad?" They'd been over that minefield -- melting iceberg -- personal tour of hell -- whatever -- enough times that Fraser just sighed.

"He's been to Chicago to help several times, apart from the occasions I -- and we -- have seen him in Canada."

Ray snorted. "And you want to think about him in bed now? Because I know you like he does? Nah, that's not good enough. Who're you really going to hear if I call you that?"

And Fraser closed his eyes, and Ray knew the answer even before he said it. Before he took a deep breath, and tensed like there was no way he'd ever let go. "Victoria."

They'd played that game, too, but not with any 'Ben' shit floating around. That was all Mountie and bad boy, take me in, officer, and don't be gentle with the cuffs. But whatever the hell Fraser still had in his system about her, it didn't have anything to do with keeping the robbers in his bed, because he'd unlocked the cuffs halfway through and still looked disappointed when Ray got his hands on Fraser's shoulders and pulled him down for a better kiss between strokes.

Like he'd wanted Ray to shove him off and make a break for it, all lubed up and hard as hell. Constable Fraser was one kinky bastard.

"I'm not gonna shoot you. Don't ask me to." Ray took off his shoulder holster and tossed it on the table.

"She never did." Fraser scrubbed at his eyebrow like he did in uniform, like he did in bed sometimes, and he let out one long, awful sigh. "And you've never been that good at mimicking Ray Vecchio."

"What the fuck ever." Ray held his hands up like some rookie cop had just yelled "Reach for the sky, scumbag!" "I'm out of options here, Fraser. I am not going to be your evil girlfriend. I will not tie you down, I will not freeze ninety-five percent of the way to death with you, and I will not, ever, call you fucking 'Ben' for the simple reason that it isn't your fucking name -- and no way am I calling you 'Benton,' I do not need the shit about the glottal stop thing again. No."

Fraser licked his lower lip, and that, that was just playing dirty because he knew what it usually did to Ray. But what he did not know, the salient feature here that he was just completely not grasping, was that Ray wasn't taking any more of his bullshit. The games were over, the finals were past, the Super Bowl had been played and he was still walking kinda funny.

And when Fraser said, "I don't see why you're arguing about this," that was it. End of story, end of the line, end of the last tiny bit of Ray's patience.

"Because it is shit you do not do." Ray rolled his eyes. "I don't go around telling people to call me Stan, you don't go around telling people to call you Ben. 'cause, the thing is, not my goddamn name."

"That's extremely ironic," Fraser said, and his voice was cold enough Ray wanted to salute him or something. "You didn't object when I bought the blond wig."

Ray swallowed hard and started talking to forestall him, like that'd ever worked with Fraser. Fraser'd made an even more ridiculous fake Stella than Ray made a fake Vecchio, but it was amazing what could work if you just wanted it to hard enough. Blond hair, soft voice, give the guy a few good phrases and the right lipstick, and Ray's dick still twitched at the memory. "It's not about that -- that was a game --"

Fraser sighed, sadly, and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. "Really, Ray, how many times have you called me 'Stella'? Mid-orgasm, no less?"

"-- you called me Vecchio, asshole, that was a game, too."

"No, that was your cover." Fraser put his jacket on. "I don't claim that my fixations are any less pernicious than yours -- though you're hell on stockings -- and it doesn't bother me that you're willing to accept that charade. However --"

He was all buttoned up, ready to go, and Ray was ready to let him. Though where he'd sleep -- there was always the Consulate, that horrible cot, but -- "You don't gotta be her for me anymore," Ray offered. "Ever."

Fraser shook his head like Ray was just never going to get it. "I didn't mind it and I wouldn't mind it again, when you needed it, if I believed you understood me."

Ray got between him and the door. "The belly shirt was a really bad idea. And I said I was sorry."

"I believe you." Fraser gave him the saddest smile in the entire world. The smile of "I tried my best, but here we are anyhow." "But that's not the problem. The problem is you don't believe me."

"I know you," Ray protested. "And I know your fucking name, just like you know mine."

"No, I don't think you do." Fraser stomped on the floor once, hard, and Diefenbaker woke up in the next room and came trotting in. "I've been offered a transfer again, and I have the paperwork all completed to decline it. But it will not take much effort to accept it."

"What the fuck." Ray leaned on the door. "Fine. It's so important, I'll call you 'Ben.' I'll call you Little Mary Sunshine if it turns your crank." He was Fraser in the red suit, he was Fraser in bed and in the back seat of the GTO, and he'd never complained. This whole 'Ben' thing meant fuck-all, but Ray'd spent two weeks dragging the whole Victoria thing out of Fraser and two more weeks getting him to admit what he wanted. They'd figure it out. Fraser'd figure it out. He was good at that.

And nobody looked at the guy he was fucking, two years in, and told him he'd been saying the wrong name every time except when they were playing around. "At least 'Ben' is short." Ray grinned at him. "Easy to say when you're out of breath."

Fraser looked at the floor for a moment, then cleared his throat. "You'd be lying every time."

"You don't know that." Ray grabbed him by the collar. Dief snorted, not a good noise to hear from your local wolf, but this was not a wolf issue. "Ben," he said again. And again. And he kissed Fraser.

It was as sweet as the first time, as meltingly perfect and deft, and it made him weaker in the knees from all the goddamn practice they'd been getting. Fraser kissed him like the Mountie, like the prissied-up drag queen, like the guy he'd taken dancing in leather pants that fit like sin, like Stella, like Frannie, like everybody, like he was everybody Fraser'd ever wanted, too.

And then Fraser let him go, left him leaning against the wall next to his front door, and said, "I'll come and get my things another time."

And he put on his hat, without going all Constable Fraser, and opened the door, and left, even though Ray said, "Fraser -- Ben -- don't fucking do this."

Ray didn't try to run. He knew he couldn't chase Fraser down.  



End file.
